Chapter 3 — The Greenhouse Discovery

Claire

The creak of polished hardwood floors beneath her boots echoed faintly as Claire crossed the Galerie Lumière. The sun filtered through the gallery’s tall arched windows, bathing the space in soft light that danced across gilded frames and whispered against polished walls. It was her first quiet moment since arriving in Paris. The luggage debacle and the awkward cab ride with James had left her raw, her thoughts tangled in memories she had no intention of revisiting. Now, the gallery’s stillness felt like a balm, an invitation to breathe.

Margot had left her to wander, murmuring something about finalizing logistics for the debut. Claire welcomed the solitude, letting her fingers trail along the edge of a polished display case as she explored. The gallery was like a living thing, thrumming with the energy of a thousand stories captured in paint and sculpture. Some works were bold, demanding attention with their audacity, while others whispered, their subtleties revealing themselves only to those who lingered.

Still, the curated perfection of the space felt suffocating today, a reminder of how controlled she had tried to keep her life. How polished and composed she had forced herself to appear. Her gaze lingered on a towering sculpture of twisted metal, its jagged lines too precise, its chaos too deliberate. She stepped back, suddenly restless, craving something unfiltered, something real.

Near the back of the gallery, a set of glass-paneled doors caught her eye. They were half-hidden behind the sculpture, as though guarding a secret. The urge to push past the pristine walls of the gallery tugged at her—a quiet rebellion against the polished veneer she’d wrapped around herself. She hesitated briefly, then pushed the doors open, stepping into a narrow corridor. The air here was different—cooler, quieter, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and jasmine.

The corridor opened into a garden. Le Jardin des Reflets.

Claire froze, momentarily stunned by the sight. The cobblestone path beneath her feet wound through manicured hedges and clusters of blooming jasmine, their sweet perfume saturating the air. Small fountains burbled softly, their water catching the sunlight in crystalline arcs. Wrought-iron benches, weathered with age and use, sat tucked into alcoves of greenery, inviting moments of reflection.

It was beautiful. Serene. But it was the far end of the garden that pulled her forward.

There, half-obscured by a cluster of overgrown ivy, stood a wrought-iron gate. Its black paint had faded in places, revealing rust that gleamed like old blood. Beyond it, she could just make out the shadow of a glass structure—a greenhouse.

Her pulse quickened as she approached. The gate groaned in protest when she pushed it open, the sound startling a bird from its perch in the hedges. Claire stepped through and found herself in a space that felt worlds away from the pristine garden behind her.

The greenhouse was small, its glass panes smudged with age and streaked with ivy that clung like veins. Inside, the air was heavier, tinged with the smell of damp stone and faint traces of something metallic, perhaps rust or forgotten tools. Light filtered through the dirty panes, soft and diffuse, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality.

The floor was cracked stone, its crevices filled with moss and tiny wildflowers that had claimed the abandoned space as their own. An old wooden workbench leaned against one wall, its surface littered with remnants of the past: a rusted trowel, brittle gloves, a coil of twine.

An inscription carved into the edge of the workbench caught her eye: “À travers les ruines, la vie renaît” (“Through the ruins, life is reborn”). She traced the words with her finger, their simplicity resonating deeply. Something about this space, its quiet decay and resilience, mirrored the tangled knots inside her—grief, guilt, hope, and everything she hadn’t allowed herself to feel.

Her gaze fell on a fragment of broken glass on the floor, catching the sunlight and refracting it into a faint rainbow. She crouched to pick it up, turning it over in her hand. The edges were jagged, but the light it captured was beautiful. Fragile and imperfect, yet somehow luminous.

Claire set down her sketchpad on the workbench and exhaled slowly. The greenhouse was far from perfect—it was decayed, neglected, forgotten. And yet, it was beautiful in its imperfection.

Pulling out her pencil, she flipped open her sketchpad to a blank page. Her hand moved instinctively, sketching the greenhouse’s silhouette with quick, fluid strokes. She captured the way the ivy framed the glass, the way light filtered through the grime, the way the space seemed to carry a story she couldn’t yet decipher.

Her thoughts wandered as she worked. It was strange how this space resonated with her—its disrepair mirroring something inside her she hadn’t been able to articulate. The image of James flickered in her mind, unbidden. His presence stirred emotions she’d tried so hard to bury, and the envelope she’d left with him felt like a weight she couldn’t quite shake. What would it mean if he finally opened it? What would it mean if he didn’t?

Her pencil stilled. A memory surfaced, sharp and clear: James’s voice, low and warm, murmuring to her in the quiet of their old apartment. “You always find the beauty in broken things,” he’d said once, watching her repair a cracked ceramic bowl she’d found at a flea market. She had smiled then, brushing off the comment, but now it felt like a thread tying her to a version of herself she wasn’t sure she recognized anymore.

Her grip on the pencil tightened, and a lump rose in her throat. She almost closed the sketchpad, almost walked away from the greenhouse entirely. But then her gaze returned to the fragment of glass on the floor, catching the light again. She took a deep breath and let her hand move once more.

This wasn’t about James. This was about her.

The greenhouse whispered to her in ways the gallery couldn’t—it wasn’t polished or perfect. It was raw. Honest. A space where things could grow, yes, but also a space where things had withered, leaving behind echoes of what once was.

She sketched until her hand ached, until the page was filled with lines that captured both the greenhouse and something deeper, something intangible. When she finally set the pencil down, she felt lighter, as though some part of her had been transposed onto the paper.

Claire stood and took another long look around the greenhouse. It wasn’t just a space—it was a refuge, a sanctuary. A place where she could be messy and imperfect, where she could confront the parts of herself she usually kept hidden.

Her gaze lingered on the fragment of glass once more. It reminded her of something Sophie had said during their first meeting. “Sometimes broken things catch the light better than whole ones.”

“Le Jardin des Reflets,” she murmured to herself, the words tasting like promise.

As she stepped back into the garden, she glanced over her shoulder at the greenhouse one last time. It felt like a beginning. Or perhaps, a continuation of something she’d been too afraid to finish.

The soft trickle of the fountains accompanied her as she made her way back toward the gallery. Her sketchpad was tucked under her arm, its pages filled with the first inklings of something new.

She didn’t know where this journey would take her, but for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t afraid to find out.